Rhapsody On Avenue A
by lightshire
Summary: The Bohos are facing trials in their lives and their relationships with one another are being put to the test as tensions rise from all different directions. But a young boy with many deep, dark secrets helps pull them together as they care for him. R
1. Tompkins Square Park

**A/N: I do not own RENT or anything related to RENT. If I did, I'd be famous and crazy rich but I am neither of these, haha. The only thing I claim from this fic is the story line and a couple of the original (non-canon) characters. I hope you enjoy the story!**

* * *

Roger cupped his hands over his mouth and exhaled sharply. His breath was enough to warm his fingers, but not enough to keep them warm, much to his dismay. He tried his best to play another tune on his trusty acoustic guitar, but the cold mid-January air made his fingers stiff. Too stiff to even form a proper D chord . . . much less to finger pick. "Should've kept better tabs on that pick," he sighed to himself, "it was my last one." He leaned forward and peered into his open guitar case. A quarter and a dime was all he saw. Albeit he had been out there for less than fifteen minutes, he had been hoping for a better income. It was looking to be a slow night as far as profits went, even though the area was crawling with people. Roger was determined. He hadn't come all the way to Tompkins Square Park just to walk away with thirty-five cents. New York's most desperate mugger wouldn't even bother stopping someone for a quarter and a dime. As far as Roger was concerned, if it wasn't enough to attract a thief, it wasn't enough to walk away with. He blew into his hands and rubbed them together, hoping to loosen his joints enough to play at least one full song.

Before he could get through an intro, a bit of distant commotion caught his attention. He paused and listened. It sounded like a mild struggle, nothing too exciting, so he resumed playing. But he paused again, intrigued by the two voices he heard shouting back and forth to one another. Roger sighed again, letting his arms dangle hopelessly over the edge of his guitar. He had to check it out now. After scooping up and pocketing the two coins, Roger swung the instrument onto his back and rose from his seat on the metal bench. With that, he made his way forward to investigate the ruckus which was now attracting the attention of others. Apparently people were more interested in drama that didn't even involve them than a reasonably attractive man playing good music.

He gently pushed his way through the small crowd that had formed into a circle, like school kids gathering around a fight in the hallway. On the other side he saw Officer Martin, shooing the curious onlookers away with his left hand.

"Nothing to see here, everything is under control." Officer Martin said. "C'mon, get outta here!"

With his right hand, however, Officer Martin tightly held onto a young boy by his right arm. The lad looked to be no older than ten years old, and was frowning about being in the grips of Officer Martin. Roger squinted his eyes to get a better look at the boy. He was familiar, though Roger couldn't quite determine where he had seen him before. The crowd broke apart all except for Roger. Officer Martin then turned the kid around to face him, keeping his grip firm and his tone of voice assertive.

"I'll say this one more time," he began "I don't like seeing kids like you out in the park without supervision this late in the evening."

"I can supervise myself!" the kid exclaimed "I've been here since this morning and everything's been fine. What could possibly change when the sun goes down and the streetlights come on, huh?"

"Dark is when the bad boys come out to play."

The boy rolled his eyes and looked down towards his worn out sneakers, but he didn't say anything. In fact, he seemed to surrender.

"Now I'm gonna escort you out." Officer Martin said, a look of prideful accomplishment crossing his round face "After that I want you to go home, okay?"

"Thank god!" Roger shouted, running towards the man and the boy. "Thank _god_, you found him!"

The most confused expression formed on the young boy's face. He looked to his left and then to his right, searching for anyone else that could be the _him_ this man was praising Officer Martin for finding. But there was no one. He looked back up at Roger and raised an eyebrow at him. Was he mistaking him for someone else? If so, he was in for some disappointment.

"You know this kid?" Officer Martin asked, his tone dripping with skepticism.

"Do I know this kid? He's my cousin!" Roger exclaimed with a smile.

The boy's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. _What the heck is this man talking about?_ he wondered. But he kept quiet, simply watching the man as he interacted with the officer.

"You see," Roger began with a chuckle "my aunt and uncle are in town. They're staying for two weeks and agreed to let him crash at my place for a few days. I guess he got off the subway and took a wrong turn if he ended up all the way down here in Tompkins Square."

"If he's your cousin, then tell me his name." Officer Martin challenged.

Roger could only hesitate. He looked down at the boy who stared timidly back. Roger studied his features, trying to pick a name that would fit him. His head was square with a pair of big blue eyes, a small nose and thin lips. "Colby!" he exclaimed, unsure of what else to say. It was the first name to come to mind that actually fit. "In the family we call him Colby."

Officer Martin looked down at _Colby_, who vigorously nodded his head and gave a cheesy grin.

"Please, Martin. Now that you've found him I can take him back to my place and we'll all forget this ever happened. In fact, I'll give him a tour of the entire city so it's guaranteed not to happen again."

Officer Martin's brow furrowed at Roger. Somehow this was all too convenient for everyone involved. But he didn't want to pass up the offer. The night was young and he had a lot of patrolling to do, so why waste time dealing with this kid any longer than he had to? "Fine." He said, releasing his grip on the boy.

"Thanks, Martin! I owe you big time – you've saved both of our necks from Aunt B's chopping block for sure."

Roger quickly put an arm around the boy's shoulder and started to walk away. "Don't look back." He warned quietly. "Whatever you do, don't look back."

The boy listened and kept his eyes fixed forward until they were out of the Officer's sight. After checking to be sure that they were in the clear and seeing they were, Roger took his arm away from the boy's shoulder and chuckled. "You gotta know how to talk to Officer Martin," He said, crossing his arms over his chest "he won't hesitate to arrest your hide for jaywalking, but he's as gullible as ever."

"You're not worried that he'll arrest _you_?" the boy asked. "You know, when he finds out that I'm not really your cousin?"

"Nah . . . 'cause I don't think he'll ever find out. Besides, he's too busy chasing those bad boys he was telling you about. Whether you're my cousin or the President's son, he'll leave you alone as long as you behave and stay out of his way."

"Thanks for the tip – I'll keep it in mind." The boy said, playfully tapping the side of his head. He then pulled his black beanie down over his ears. "And thanks for bailing me out. I appreciate it."

"No problem. I guess I'm in a compassionate mood tonight, unlike the other people around here." Roger took out the coins from his pocket, looked at them, and sighed. "Think I could buy a guitar pick for thirty-five cents?"

The boy gave him a confused look and shrugged his narrow shoulders, but said nothing. Roger studied the boy. He was pale, small in stature, and quite thin. His clothes looked warn out and reasonably dirty, which made Roger wonder what his living conditions were. Did he have a family? A home? Roger didn't feel comfortable with prying into the boy's life, considering that he had only just met him, so he resigned to a simple introduction.

"I'm Roger." He said, holding out his hand for a friendly shake.

The boy hesitantly shook Roger's hand, but didn't bother to speak his name. Confused, Roger turned his head on a slant. "Who might you be?" he asked.

He hesitated again. "You can call me Colby, I guess." He replied finally with another shrug of his shoulders.

Roger was surprised by how laid back the boy was. In fact, he seemed gloomy. His eyes were tired, his expression was disinterested, and his voice was growing more and more nonchalant with every word he spoke, and it baffled Roger. Most other kids he talked to were lively, happy, and childish, but this kid was like an old soul wrapped in a dirty winter coat. _Colby_ certainly didn't seem interested in having a conversation, which lead Roger to lose interest as well. He turned slightly to the left, tempted to say goodbye and return to his abandoned guitar case (if it hadn't been scooped up already) and let the boy go on his way. But just as his lips were forming to pronounce his farewell . . .

"Hey!" Colby exclaimed. "What is that?"

Roger looked around, but didn't see anything spectacular for the boy to be so suddenly excited about. He turned back to face him, returning his head to its slanted position (a sure sign of confusion). "What's what?"

"That . . . on your back."

Roger scoffed. "Have you been living under a rock? It's a guitar. These things have been around since the beginning of ti-"

"I know it's a guitar, idiot . . ." he chuckled "I meant what make is it?"

He moved to stand behind Roger and stood up on the tips of his toes to see the same printed on the top of the instrument's neck, but to his dismay, all that was left were four or five specs of gold paint – remnants of the vibrant text that once was but had faded away over time.

"I don't know." Roger replied "I got this thing on the street a few years back, and by the looks of it I assume it's pretty old, but it sounds good. That's all that matters to me."

"Wouldn't you like to know what make it is?" Colby asked.

"Well, sure . . . but I don't feel like hauling it into a music store."

"You don't need a music store to identify guitars, just someone who knows a little something about them."

"And I suppose _you_ know a little something about them?" Roger asked sarcastically, turning around to face the boy, who offered a small smirk and nodded his head. By the look on his face Roger knew what the boy was implying and decided to humor him. "Okay then, Colby," he began, resting his hands on his hips, "what make do you think it is?"

"I don't think . . . I _know_ it's a Squire by Fender."

"HA!" Roger exclaimed, a puff of gray smoke bursting from his mouth as a result of the cold.

"What?" Colby asked, appearing to be put-off by Roger's mockery. "You don't believe me?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you don't."

"Well . . ."

"I know what it is, but if you don't believe me then go ahead, haul it down to the music store and let the _experts _. . ." he said, using air quotation marks "take a look at it."

"Maybe I will."

"Fine. But when they confirm what I said, I think you should give me something. You know, to vindicate the emotional trauma your doubt has caused me."

"What? You don't look the least bit traumatized by anything, you little scammer. Besides, I already saved you from Officer Martin. That ain't enough for ya?"

The boy smiled, revealing a set of perfectly straight teeth. He even managed to giggle, and for the first time to Roger, sounded like the child he was. Relieved to see a glimmer of normality in the kid, Roger laughed too, but Colby's proposal made him wonder if he would even see the boy again. Something about him made Roger hope that he would, even though he couldn't put his finger on what it was. Without realizing it, Roger was now rubbing his chin in thought as he stared absentmindedly at the boy, who stared right back only with a more intrigued look on his face.

"Are you any good at playing guitar?" he asked.

Roger was shaken from his trance-like state. "I'm sorry?"

"Are you good at playing guitar?"

"Good enough to earn thirty-five cents on the street, apparently." Roger replied with a scoff. "Not to sound overly self-confident or anything, but I'm as good of a player as most of the other schmucks being played on the radio these days." Roger sat down on a short stone wall and brought the guitar down to his lap. "I actually was one of those schmucks for a little while."

"What happened?" Colby asked, his tone of voice growing soft.

Thoughts of April were now dancing around inside Roger's mind. He could easily answer the boy's question in many different ways. It was the lifestyle that lead him to April, thus leading him to heartbreak and a seemingly endless period of grief. He involuntarily shook his head in disappointment as he thought about her. Why'd she have to go and kill herself? He was HIV positive too, yet he was still living, and she knew darn well that he was prepared to take care of her in the bad time ahead. Why she did it still confused him to this very day, and it still hurt like a fresh wound. Heck, it was still a fresh wound. He realized now that the pain of death and grief stayed fresh for much too long. What he didn't realize, however, was that he had trailed off in thought . . . again, leaving the kid hanging. But he could see that Roger was thinking, and he could see some type of burden was laid on him, so he stayed quiet, allowing the man to think. After several long moments of silence, Roger straightened his posture and sighed, forming a chord on the neck of the guitar, and positioning his right fingers to pluck them out.

"It just wasn't for me." He replied. "Or rather, it wasn't the right time for me. I might get back up there someday, but I don't know." _It all depends on how sooner or later this disease decides to kill me_, he thought to himself.

With that, he started to quietly play the chords, and softly sang his lyrics.

"_One song glory,  
__One song before I go  
__Glory, one song to leave behind  
__Find one song, one last refrain  
__Glory, from the pretty boy front man . . ."_

He was cut off by the sharp sound of change hitting the ground. To his surprise, it was the boy who had dropped it. Three dimes, a nickel, and a penny – thirty-six cents total.

"I think you're good enough for more than thirty-five cents." he said, his expression blank but his tone of voice filled with something like compassion.

Roger offered him a curt nod as if to thank him. Colby returned the favor, and without saying a word, turned and began to walk away. Roger watched until his figure disappeared from sight. It was an abrupt ending to a nice little conversation/meeting, but something in his gut told him that he'd be seeing _Colby_ again soon.


	2. The Make Of A Guitar

Roger laid on the couch. His legs throbbed and jittery sensations went up from his toes to his thighs, sensations that only movement could get rid of. The problem was that it was past 3 o'clock in the morning and he didn't feel like moving. No, he just wanted to sleep, but the random insomnia and (even more random) restless leg syndrome wouldn't allow him to catch a single wink. He would roll over onto his right side and curl into the fetal position which would help ease the restlessness in his legs, but was too uncomfortable for him to fall asleep in. Then he'd turn on his back and stretch out which was much more comfortable, but within minutes his legs would be twitching and aching again. He tried everything short of getting up and walking around but with no positive result. Was he getting sick? He doubted it . . . he felt fine. Was something bothering him? No. He tore through his mind for any troubling thoughts but there were none, and the only worry he had was Mark finding out that he had been up almost (if not all) night and then forcing him to the clinic. Mark was a tremendous friend – Roger's very best – but his caution could get a little annoying at times, for lack of a better word.

The power was shut off, leaving Roger with no way to tell what time it was. All he could do was wait for the sun to rise and then declare the night sleepless. Shouldn't be long now, he thought, feeling as though it was around 7. Unfortunately for him, however, it was just going on 4. He laid there for another 4 hours, forcing his eyes to remain closed but tossing and turning nonetheless. At 8, exhaustion set in and Roger could finally feel himself drifting into a light slumber. _Finally_ _. . ._

"Good morning, sleepyhead!"

If there was ever a time in his recent life that Roger wanted to scream a long sentence of cuss words and insults, it was now. He pressed an open palm against the side of his head in frustration, thinking of how much he hated Mark all of a sudden.

"You got Life Support today, so you better get up," Mark said, stepping into the kitchen. "and don't forget to take –"

"My AZT, I got it. Just like I got it yesterday and the day before that and the day before that."

"You say that, and yet you forget to take it by yourself."

"Oh yeah?" Roger retorted, not caring that he sounded like a little child complaining about eating vegetables. "You don't know if I'll remember or forget until you stop reminding me."

"I've stopped reminding you and guess what happened . . ."

No response.

"That's right, you forgot." Mark chuckled. "Just get up and take the pill."

In one motion Roger threw his legs over the side of the couch and rose to his feet, a little too quickly because he became dizzy for a brief moment afterwards. He staggered to the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, and snatched one of the last pieces of bread off of the counter. "How's your filming going?" he asked nonchalantly.

Mark sighed. "Shooting without a script isn't as easy as I thought it'd be. It's about as hard as shooting with one. Writing screenplays was easier. How's that for disappointment?"

"What exactly are you looking to shoot?" Roger asked, cocking his head on a slant.

"Reality." Mark replied bluntly. "The rawest of raw reality – I'm talking muggers on the prowl, homeless people trying to wash windshields for a quick buck and being shooed away, maybe even . . . nevermind."

"What?"

"Nevermind!"

"What were you gonna say?"

Mark sighed, letting his posture falter. "For a while I've had an idea of . . ."

Mark hesitated, so Roger raised his eyebrows and leaned forward, a sly smile forming on his lips. "An idea of? . . ."

"Filming a prostitute getting picked up."

There was a long pause of almost deafening silence. Mark looked at Roger – a childish and frightened expression on his face as he bit his lower lip. Roger simply stared back with the blankest of blank look planted on his face. In fact, his eyes almost seemed to glaze over. Was this a dream? Had he actually fallen asleep and just didn't realize it? Mark would never say that in reality . . . would he? Roger's lower lip started to quiver, and his eyelids started to squint, and within moments he burst out; roaring with laughter. He laughed and laughed and laughed until he started to cough, and poor Mark's cheeks began to blush.

"What happened to sweet, innocent, little Mark Cohen?" He asked between laughs. "You were always the shy, awkward one growing up, and now you're looking to film prostitutes . . . actual prostitutes . . . getting picked up? Do you want to follow her and the frisky scoundrel to the hotel, too?"

"Okay, you're taking this way out of context."

"You know . . . the whole prostitute thing could be arranged . . ."

"Way, way, _way_ out of context!"

Laughing again, Roger stepped forward and gave Mark a playful punch on the arm. "Oh come on, you know I'm joking. I get it, prostitution is raw reality."

He couldn't keep it together. Roger burst out in laughter again, and in response Mark simply rolled his eyes, waved his hands in the air, and started to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Roger asked.

"Out to film catch some early morning life. Out to try, at least."

"You should come to Life Support today. I don't think they'd mind you coming in to film."

"I'll think about it." Mark replied as he walked out the front door. "Speaking of . . . take your AZT."

Roger scoffed, but it was more of an annoyed scoff than humored. But the thought of raw reality got him thinking about his recent life. Particularly the kid he met two nights before. What was his name? Cody? … _Colby_! Roger thought back to that night – to how Officer Martin was giving the boy a hard time. That was some raw reality Mark would have appreciated. Roger's lie about the boy being his cousin, however, Mark most likely would not approve, but Roger didn't care. Sure, Mark kept him on schedule with the AZT, but that didn't mean Roger had to live for his approval. Roger thought back to his conversation with Colby, and how the kid was certain he knew the make of his guitar, which then made Roger wonder . . .

* * *

The bell dangling over the door chimed as Roger stepped into the local music store with the guitar strapped to his back. He was going to sit down and play a few songs in front of the coffee shop (as they were one of the few businesses that didn't shoo him away), and since the store was half a block away, Roger decided to go there, simply to get the kid and his assumption off his mind. The store looked different than he remembered.

"Did some remodeling around here, eh?" he asked the worker at the front, who happened to be the store owner.

"Yeah, we had a pretty bad break-in almost two months ago."

"Dang, what happened?" Roger asked.

"Well, I came to open up and found the front window busted out. Whoever it was almost made off with every instrument we kept out for display."

"Almost?"

"Use your head, kid; even in the middle of the night a bunch of perps carrying guitars and parts of a drum kit would be suspicious. I don't know exactly what happened, but everything was found two blocks away under a streetlight. Thankfully a taxi cab drove by and the driver reported it to the cops."

"So you got everything back?"

"Sure did, and the insurance company got me some new windows. But you better believe I don't leave anything out on display at night no more."

"Good man. Glad you learned a lesson of merchandise safety, bummer you had to learn it the hard way, though."

"Yeah, but what's done is done. So what can I do you for?"

Roger pulled the guitar off of his back, and after pausing to look at it for a moment, gently laid it down on the counter for the owner to see. "I'd like to know what this is." He replied.

"The make?"

Roger nodded his head. "The make."

The owner lifted his glasses up to his forehead (as if the bifocals were not enough), and cocked his head back, turning his natural double chin into a triple. His thick lips curved downward and his tired eyes seemed to sink into their sockets. It was a typical, older-person-study expression. The man ran his fingers across the body, and the palm up his hand down the neck, all while humming thoughts to himself.

"It's an old one, that's for sure. Yep, looks like this one has survived many years."

He paused, letting his eyes scan over the instrument one more time. He then pounded a fist on the counter, and raised his voice enthusiastically. "You got yourself a Squire."

"By Fender?" Roger asked, his throat suddenly feeling dry.

"Of course. No company would give a model the same name."

Roger could only shake his head as he heard Colby's small voice echoing in his head. _"I don't think . . . I know it's a Squire by Fender."_ Now how did a young kid like Colby come to identify the guitar faster than someone who sold them for a living? For all Roger knew, Colby could be an aspiring musician who could already carry a tune and play like a legend. How else would he have known? But now Roger was more than curious.

"Thank you." He said, offering the owner a curt nod as he picked up the guitar. He then turned around and made for the exit.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?" the owner called out.

"Nope, that'll do, thanks!"

* * *

After a sleepless night, Roger decided against going to the Life Support meeting. He knew he'd catch storms of heat from Collins and Angel, and Mark if he showed up. Roger couldn't help but chuckle at the thought, but he needed rest. The couch felt nice. Roger laid down and lounged. Though he didn't fall asleep (not wanting to fall into some strange sleeping pattern, he hated those), he felt himself feeling more and more rested. That was until the front door flew open, and Mark Cohen stepped inside.

"Hey!" Roger greeted with a warm smile. "Shoot any prostitutes tonight?"

"Seriously, you're making it sound like I'm out to kill them. I'm shooting footage," he said, holding up his trusty camera, "not a gun. Just wanted to make that clear."

"No, no, no, I definitely understand. But still, shooting footage sounds just as creepy."

"Oh, shut up." Mark said, taking off his scarf and throwing it on the floor.

The small apartment grew quiet. All that could be heard was Mark walking around. And then . . . a loud knock at the door. It startled Roger, and Mark as well who was in the other room.

"Hey, can you get that?" Mark called.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Roger slowly got up and made his way to the door. He didn't quite make it there before another brigade of loud knocks erupted into the apartment. Roger got a firm grip on the handle and pulled the large, sideways-sliding door open. He was flabbergasted when he saw who was on the other side.

Officer Martin.

"Hey Davis, I know it's getting late and I'm sorry to bother you . . ."

"Nah, you're fine." Roger replied, nervously scratching the top of his head. "What are you- what are you doing here?"

"As strange as it sounds, I need you to come down to the station with me."

"What?"

Now Mark had come to see what was going on. Roger shot a glance over at him and saw the equally confused expression on his face. Turning back to Officer Martin, Roger's tone of voice took on a hint of concernment, and a worried look came to his features. Could it be Angel? Collins? _Mimi_?

"What's going on, Martin?" he asked, a little annoyed that he hadn't gotten a response yet.

"I just need you to come down to the station and pick up your cousin. He won't make a phone call and I can't find which hotel your Aunt and Uncle are-"

"Cousin?" Roger and Mark both asked at the same time.

Officer Martin's brow furrowed suspiciously, and his dark eyes danced between the two young men. "Colby . . .?"

"Colb-" Mark started to question, but Roger interrupted him.

"Colby! Oh, right!" He exclaimed rather loudly, unable to conceal the nervousness in his tone of voice. He then paused and cleared his throat. "What'd the kid get into this time?"

"If you'll just come with me I can explain on the way down."


End file.
